why am I in the kitchen?

She just walked into the kitchen. The problem is, she can't remember why. It was just in her mind- something important. Frustration washes over her. She feels like she is slipping. She can't hold onto things: ideas, memories, tasks. They pop into her mind; and then they are gone. Plucked like ripe cherries from laden trees; evil deeds by greedy ravens.

She stands in the kitchen surveying the view. She thinks, maybe if she sees something it will spark some thought. But even as she turns her head from the cabinets to the table, she feels her eyes glazing over. She's lost control. What am I doing in the kitchen, she thinks. She shakes herself a bit a walks out.

What she doesn't see is the wraithe-like figure behind her.
What she doesn't feel are its long, bony fingers piercing her skull and swirling her brain. Its dusty-brown, dead fingers swirl through her head as if it desires to create an intellectual froth from which to drink deeply. And it wins. The longer she fights to control her thoughts, the more it can feed.

It will only stay with this one a little longer. She was strong at first: thoughtful, busy; but focused. Lately, she is tired and broken. There is not much fight left, and soon there will not be much left to fill its belly.

Sad that.
Sad for it.
Devastating for her.